The grandstand was filled with cheering students. In one section were the cohorts of Randall College, led in giving their cries by “Bean” Perkins, who had a voice like unto that of some fog horn. There was a mass of glowing colors as flags and streamers were waved in the wind.
In another part of the stand a smaller but no less enthusiastic throng sent up exultant cries of rivalry, calling out repeatedly: “Boxer! Boxer! Boxer!”
Scattered among the students in each of the two divisions of the stand were girls and more girls, all of them pretty, at least in the eyes of their admirers, and all of them sporting one college colors or the other.
The bleachers were filled by ardent supporters of the game who were not so particular about having a roof over their heads and who, for one reason or another, had to look to the difference in cost between a grandstand ticket and one on the side benches.
It was the occasion of the first regular game of the season in the Tonoka Lake League between Randall College and Boxer Hall. As the opposing players came out for warm-up practice the yells, cheers and cries were redoubled, and the stands seemed a waving riot of colors, like some great bed of flowers.
The sounds of balls impinging on thick mitts, of willow bats cracking out hot liners or lofty flies were heard all over the diamond. Never had the grass seemed greener and never had the field looked so inviting. It was a perfect day for the game.
There was not a little anxiousness on the part of the Randall players as they “sized up” their opponents. They found them a sturdy lot of youngsters.
“They’re playing snappy ball,” observed Coach Lighton to Captain Woodhouse.
“Yes, and so will we,” predicted Kindlings. “Just watch us.”
“I intend to. That’s why I’m out here. Now let me give you and Langridge a few pointers,” and he called the pitcher to him, the three strolling off to one side of the field.
Tom Parsons was on hand, and it does him no discredit when it is stated that there was a feeling of envy in his heart. But it was honest envy. He wanted to get out on the diamond and do his share in helping the Randall team to win. But he could only look on and cheer with the others.
To win or lose the first game meant much to either team. Not so much to Boxer Hall, perhaps, as that team had run Fairview Institute a close second for the championship, but to Randall the winning of the game might put the necessary “snap” into the lads, while to lose it might so discourage them that it would be well on in the season before they would “take a brace.”
So it is no wonder that there was a feeling of nervousness on the part of the coach and the players.
The practice was over. The preliminaries had been arranged, the home team, Randall, having the privilege of being last to bat. Langridge, with final instructions from the coach, took his place in the box.
“Play ball!” fairly howled the umpire, and the game was on.
“Ping!” That was the sound of the bat colliding with the ball, the first ball that Langridge threw. Describing a graceful curve, the white sphere sailed up into the air. Ed Kerr, hoping it might be a foul, had thrown off his mask and was wildly looking for it, but it was winging its way toward Jerry Jackson in right field. A yell went up from the two hundred college supporters of Boxer Hall, but it was changed to a groan when one of the Jersey twins neatly gathered in the fly and put the runner out. Langridge breathed a sigh of relief and struck out the next two men.
Not a man got to first on the Randall team in the initial inning. Kerr knocked a pop fly, but it was caught by the pitcher, who repeated Langridge’s trick and sent the next two men to the bench in short order.
The next three innings saw goose eggs in the squares of both teams, the only hitting that was done being foul tips.
“It’s a pitchers’ battle,” began to be whispered from seat to seat, and so it seemed. In the sixth inning Randall succeeded in getting a man to first on balls, and then began an attempt on the part of the onlooking students of that college to get the pitcher’s “goat,” which, being interpreted, meant to “rattle” him. That he had a “glass arm” was the mildest epithet hurled at him, but Dave Ogden, who was doing the twirling for Boxer Hall, only smiled in a confident sort of way and struck out the next man.
He was not so successful with Kindlings Woodhouse, and the captain hammered out a pretty fly that was good for two bases and sent Bricktop Molloy to third. The Randall boys were rejoicing now, for they saw a chance to score the first run. And the run itself was brought in by the blue-eyed and red-haired Molloy a moment later, when Phil Clinton knocked a hot liner right between the Boxer Hall shortstop and the third baseman. But that ended the fun, though the score was 1 to 0 in favor of the home team.
This may have been an incentive to the visitors, for straightway they began pounding Langridge, and when the seventh inning ended the score was 4 to 2 in favor of Boxer Hall.
“Boys, we’ve got to down ’em!” said Woodhouse fiercely. “Don’t let them put the game on ice this way. Don’t do it. Take a brace.”
In the eighth inning it looked as if there was going to be a slump in Randall stock. Langridge seemed to go to pieces and issued walking passes to two men, while he was batted for a two-bagger and a three-base hit. But with a gritting of their teeth the others rallied to his support, and though the visitors tucked away two more runs, making the score 6 to 2, at which their cohorts went into a fine frenzy, that was all they could do.
“Fellows, we’re going to win!” cried Captain Paul, or “Pinky” Davenport, of the Boxers.
“Wait a bit, son,” advised Kindlings dryly.
In the ending of the eighth there was a look of “do or die” about the Randall players. Tom Parsons felt himself gripping the sides of the seat until the board hurt his hands.
“Oh, if I could only get down there and play!” he whispered to himself. “Why can’t I? why can’t I?” But he couldn’t and he knew it.
Rather to their own surprise the Randall lads began finding the ball with surprising regularity. They batted it out “for keeps,” as Molloy said, and they managed to tie the score. Then came the ever nerve-thrilling ninth inning in a close game. By great good luck, after he had given one man his base on balls, Langridge retired a trio in one-two-three order, and the score still stood a tie.
“Now, fellows, slam it into them. Wallop the hide off ’em—sting ’em—souse ’em—put ’em in brine for next year!” implored Holly Cross. “I’m first up, and I’m going to give you a correct imitation of a man making a home run.”
But he didn’t. Holly struck out miserably and he went away into a far corner and thought gloomy thoughts. Not for long, however. A resounding crack of the bat told him some one had knocked a fly. It was Phil Clinton, and he started for first like a deer with the hounds after it.
“My, but he can run!” exclaimed Tom in admiration. “Wouldn’t he be fine covering the gridiron with the ball tucked under his arm? Go on! go on! That’s the stuff, Phil! Pretty! pretty! That’s a beaut! that’s a beaut!”
Tom was on his feet yelling at the top of his voice. So were hundreds of other lads and girls also. But the Boxer third baseman was right near the ball. He gathered it in and hurled it to first. It would have been all over with Phil, in spite of his magnificent run, except that the first baseman missed it, and Phil, amid a riot of cheers, kept on to second.
That sealed the fate of the Boxers. They “slumped” and went to pieces badly. The Randall lads garnered a run and so they won the game—the first of the season—by a score of 7 to 6.
And then what cheering there was!
“Bonfires to-night, fellows—bonfires multiplied by seven and one more!” cried Captain Woodhouse as he gathered the victorious nine about him and tried to hug each member. “Well played, my hearties! Yo ho! and a heave, yo ho! You shall dine sumptuously this day, an it please ye!”
“Hold hard there!” came the laughing but calming voice of the coach. “No breaking of training just because you’ve won the first game. Not much! You’ve got to buckle down harder than ever from now until school closes.”
“Not even a cigarette?” asked Holly Cross, with a wink at his chums.
“Or an ice cream soda?” added Bricktop, his blue eyes twinkling.
“Go on,” answered the coach with another laugh, not taking the trouble to return an answer to so obvious a question. “They are going to cheer you. Get ready to give them a yell in return.”
The defeated team had gathered together. There was an air of sullenness about the members at losing the game, but this mood quickly passed under the entreaties of Pinky Davenport, who was a sportsman and “a good loser,” as he besought his men to “perk up and wallop ’em next time.” He called for three cheers for the victors, and they were followed by the Boxer Hall yell.
Back came three ringing acclamations and a “tiger” from Woodhouse and his mates, and their yell, as weird a combination of words and syllables as could well be devised, brought the whole concourse of spectators standing up in acknowledgment. Then came more cheering, and the nines disappeared into the dressing-rooms beneath the grandstand, while the crowds filed away.
“Well,” remarked Sid as he walked along with Tom a little later, “it was a glorious victory, as the poem says. I don’t exactly remember what it was all about nor how we did it, but ‘’twas a glorious victory.’”
“Now you’re talking,” was Phil Clinton’s opinion. “Eh, Tommy, my lad?”
Tom was rather silent. He had cheered the nine until his throat ached, but somehow there was to him a hollowness in the winning.
“Too bad you couldn’t play, old man,” commented Sid. “I was almost hoping Langridge would strain his arm, and then——”
“Don’t!” exclaimed Tom quickly. “That’s bad luck, and, what’s worse, Sid, it’s treason.”
“Then give me liberty or buy me a seltzer lemonade, Patrick Henry!” declaimed Phil. “Honest now, Tom, weren’t you just aching to get out and play?”
“I was,” replied Tom so earnestly that the others looked curiously at him. “I never wanted so much in my life to get into a game. Why, I’d even been glad to act as backstop. But it’s all right,” he added quickly. “It was a great game, and maybe I’ll have a chance to play next year if I live that long,” and he laughed, but there was no mirth in it.
“Mighty pretty lot of girls at the game,” observed Sid, as if to change the subject.
“That’s what,” agreed Tom, glad to get on a more congenial topic.
“Oh, wait until we play Fairview Institute,” said Phil.
“Why?” from Tom.
“Why, that’s co-ed, you know—girl students as well as boys. And, say, maybe there aren’t some stunners among ’em! They take in all the games at home and some that aren’t, and they have flags and a yell of their own. They know how to yell, too. I was over to a ball game there last year, before I thought of coming to Randall, and say, it was immense. There was one——”
“Cut it out, if it’s about a girl,” advised Sid. “When you get on the dame question, you don’t know where to stop. Sufficient to say that there are some.”
“Yes, and then some more,” added Phil. “Wait until we go there or they come here. Then you’ll see something worth seeing.”
“May the day come soon,” spoke Tom with a laugh. “I sat next to a mighty pretty girl to-day all right. She had a flag of Randall colors, and when we won she waved it so hard she nearly put my eye out.”
“Of course you made a fuss,” said Phil with a grin.
“Of course. I turned to apologize and so did she, and I knocked her hat all squeegee and she blushed and I got red, and then—well, I up and asked her if she had a brother at college.”
“That’s going some,” commented Sid. “What did she say? Did you learn her name? Where does she live?”
“Fair and softly, little one,” advised Tom, with a sort of assumed superciliousness. “Trust your Uncle Dudley for that.”
He walked on a few paces.
“Well?” demanded Phil.
“Is that all?” cried Sid.
“No,” said Tom, provokingly mysterious about it.
“Go on. Tell a fellow, do.”
“What’s the use?” asked Tom. “I saw her walking off after the game with another fellow.”
“Who?” demanded his two chums.
“Langridge.”
“With him?” exclaimed Sid, and there was a new meaning in his tones. “Who was the girl?”
“Her name was Madge Tyler,” replied Tom slowly.
“Madge Tyler!” repeated Sid. “Why, her brother used to go here. He graduated two years ago. He was a crackajack first baseman. And so Madge Tyler is going with Langridge?” he questioned.
“Or he with her,” said Tom dryly. “I don’t see that it makes much difference. Why, hasn’t he got a right to?”
“Oh, I s’pose if you put it that way, he has,” went on Sid. “Only——” and he stopped abruptly.
“Only what?” asked Tom.
“Only—nothing. Say, here’s a chance to buy me that seltzer lemonade. I think you ought to stand treat for Phil and me, Tom, seeing that if it hadn’t been for us the game would have been lost and you wouldn’t have met Miss Madge.”
“I don’t know that it has benefited me much,” replied Tom.
“What do you mean, you old cart horse?” asked Phil, thumping his friend on the back. “Seeing the game won or meeting the pretty girl? I believe you said she was pretty.”
“I didn’t say so, but she is—very. But I meant about meeting her. Langridge seems to have a mortgage in that direction, I fancy.”
“He makes me sick!” exclaimed Phil. “He and the airs he gives himself. But come on in here,” and he turned toward a drug store. “I’m like a lime kiln, I’m so warm. It’s your treat, Tom.”
“All right, I’m willing.”
“Did Miss Madge ask you to call?” inquired Phil as the three were wending their way toward college again.
“Yes.”
“You don’t say so! Well, it seems to me that for a new acquaintance you rushed matters fairly well.”
“I forgot to add,” said Tom slowly, “that I knew her before—back in Northville where I live. She moved away from there some years ago and I didn’t recognize her at first. But she knew me at once.”
“Wow! You old coffee percolator!” shouted Sid. “Why didn’t you dish that out to us first, instead of letting us think you made an impression simply by the aid of your manly figure? So you knew her of old. Ha! ha! Likewise ho! ho! I begin to smell a concealed rodent in the woodpile.”
“You didn’t give me a chance,” was Tom’s quiet answer, and then he fell to talking about the game until he and Sid got to their room. Later there were bonfires and fun galore in honor of the victory.
Coach Lighton gave the nine no rest. Early the next Monday afternoon, as soon as lessons were over, he had them out on the diamond playing against the scrub. Somewhat to the surprise of members of the second team as well as that of the ’varsity, Tom Parsons struck out an unusual number of players.
“You fellows will have to bat better than this,” growled Langridge when practice was over and the ’varsity game had been saved merely by a fumble on the part of a scrub fielder. “This won’t do.”
“Physician, heal thyself,” quoted Captain Woodhouse with a grim smile. “You struck out twice, Langridge.”
“I know it, but batting isn’t my best specialty and it is for some of you fellows.”
“True enough,” admitted Kindlings gravely, “and we must brace up a bit for the game next Saturday with Fairview.”
“The captain is right, boys,” added the coach. “You must do some hard hitting.”
“Or else Tom Parsons mustn’t pitch so well,” said Phil Clinton in a low voice to Sid. “How about it?”
“That’s right. He’s improving wonderfully. Langridge will have to look to his pitching arm.”
At that moment the wealthy youth passed by Phil and Sid. He heard what they said, and if they could have seen his face then they would have been somewhat puzzled at the look on it. But neither Tom nor any of his friends saw.
It was the next day after the scrub game that as Tom was alone in his room, “boning” away on Latin, a knock sounded on the door.
“Come!” he cried, and, much to his surprise, Langridge entered.
“You’re becoming a regular greasy dig, aren’t you?” he asked pleasantly.
“Well, I’ve got to do some studying, you know. That’s what I came here for.”
“Yes, I know and all that sort of thing, but if you’re going in for athletics you can’t pound away at your books too hard.”
“Oh, I guess what pounding I do won’t hurt me,” and Tom laid aside the volume, the while wondering why Langridge had called on him. Tom distinctly was not in the rich youth’s set.
“I hope not,” and the other’s manner was becoming more and more cordial. “But I say, Parsons, don’t you want to help us get one in on the sophs?”
“Sure. You can always count on me. What is it this time?”
“Well, you know the little open pavilion down near the river?”
“The one near the boathouse?”
“That same.”
“Sure I know it.”
“Well, you know according to ancient and revered college tradition that is sacred to the sophomores. None other but members of the second-year class may go there. If one of us freshmen is caught there it means a ducking, to say the least.”
“So I’ve heard.”
“Well, Kerr and I were in there the other day, for we heard that the sophs were off on a little racket, and we didn’t think we’d be disturbed. We had a couple of girls there and were having a little confab when along came Gladdus and Battersby, grabbed us before we knew it and chucked us into the H2O, whence we floundered like drowned rats.”
“Yes, I heard about it.”
“So did the whole college, I guess. Now Kerr and I feel that not only have we been insulted, but that the whole freshman class has.”
“I agree to that.”
“And will you help us to get even?”
“Sure. What you going to do?”
“You’ll see later. What I need now is a coil of wire. I want to know if you’ll get it for me.”
“Certainly, but why can’t you get it for yourself?”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I’ve got about all the marks I can stand this term, and merely because I happened to play an innocent trick in class to-day I’m forbidden to leave the college grounds for a week. Just when I want to go to town, too. So I’ve got to get some one else to get the wire for me, and I thought you would. I’ll pay for it, of course.”
“Sure I’ll get it,” agreed Tom, not stopping to think that Kerr, the special chum of Langridge, might have acted for his friend. “What kind do you want?”
“I’ll tell you. Here’s the money,” and Langridge handed over a bill, also giving Tom a memorandum of the kind of wire wanted and where to get it in Haddonfield.
“And one more thing,” the other youth added as he prepared to take his leave.
“What’s that?”
“Don’t, for the life of you, tell a soul that you got the wire for me. I want it kept a dead secret. The trick will be all the better then. Will you promise?”
“I will.”
“On your honor as a freshman of Randall College?”
Tom wondered at the other’s insistence.
“Of course I will. Shall I swear?” and Tom laughed.
“No, your word is enough,” spoke Langridge significantly. “Have the wire by to-night, and we’ll teach the sophs a lesson they won’t soon forget.”
Late that same afternoon Tom, having gone to town alone, that he might accomplish his mission unobserved, came back with a coil of telegraph wire concealed under his sweater at his waist. He smuggled it to Langridge’s room without being seen.
“That’s the stuff, old man,” cried Langridge heartily, but there was an air of patronizing superiority in his manner that Tom did not like. Still, he reasoned, the other could not rid himself of an inborn habit so easily, and it really seemed, in spite of the fact that Tom might be regarded as a rival of Langridge, that the latter was doing his best to be friendly.
“I s’pose it wouldn’t do to ask what’s up, would it?” inquired Tom as he was about to leave.
“Hardly,” replied Langridge with what he meant to be a genial smile. “It might get out, you know. But you can be in at the death, so to speak. The whole freshman class will assemble at the boathouse about nine. There’ll be a full moon and we can have a good view of the sophs’ pavilion.”
“Are they going to be there?”
“I hope so. In fact I’m counting on it. This is the night of their annual moonlight song festival. They gather in and about the pavilion and make the night hideous with snatches of melody. They’re rotten singers—the sophs this year—but that is neither here nor there. The point is that they’ll be there, and it’s up to us freshmen to give ’em a little surprise party.”
“I suppose you’re going to arrange the wire so they can’t get into the pavilion without cutting it,” suggested Tom, “or else put it across the path to trip them up.”
“Er—yes—something like that,” replied Langridge hastily. “Oh, by the way, have you a knife? I lost mine out rowing the other day. I’ll give it back to you to-morrow.”
Tom passed over his knife, a good-sized one, with his name engraved on the handle. His father had given it to him.
“Don’t lose it,” he cautioned. “I think a great deal of it.”
“I’ll not,” promised Langridge. “Now don’t forget to be on hand.”
“I’ll be there to see the fun.”
“And maybe you’ll see more than you bargain for,” whispered Langridge as Tom went out. There was a curious look on the face of the ’varsity pitcher.
One by one, by twos and threes or in small groups, silent figures stole away from dormitories that night and gathered about the pavilion or the boathouse, which was not far from it. To the first place went the sophomores, bent on having their annual frolic of song. To the second rendezvous traveled the freshmen, but they went more silently, for they did not want their natural enemies to learn of their presence.
The sophomores, however, were on their guard. From time immemorial it had been the custom for the first-year class to endeavor to break up the song fest of their predecessors, and it was the function of the first years to do this in as novel a manner as possible.
Tradition had it that various methods had been used, such as setting fire to the pavilion, digging pits in the paths that led to it and covering the holes with leaves and grass, laying a line of hose to the place, so that at an opportune moment the singers would be drenched and routed. The latter was a favorite plan and most successful.
But to-night a more strict guard than usual had been kept over the battle-scarred pavilion. All that day a committee had been on the watch so that it was thought impossible that any hose could be used or any pits dug.
Now the sophomores were beginning to gather in and around the small shelter. They were jubilant, for they began to think they had outwitted their never-ceasing enemies.
Meanwhile the freshmen were not idle. In large numbers they had quietly gathered at the boathouse, in the dark shadows of which they remained in hiding, waiting for the opening of the singing and the consequent breaking up of the sophomore body.
“What’s the game?” asked Sid of Tom as those two and Phil Clinton made their way to the rendezvous. “Water pipes, fire or something brand new?”
“You can search me,” was Tom’s non-committal answer. “I hope it’s something new. There doesn’t seem to be any provisions for a bonfire and none of us swiped the fire hose.”
“Langridge and his committee have it in charge,” said Phil. “There’s some secrecy about it, and very properly, too. Last year, I understand, it leaked out and the fun was spoiled.”
Tom did not reply, but he wondered what use Langridge was going to make of the wire.
“They ought to start soon now,” whispered Phil. “There’s a good crowd of them there.”
“Yes, and they’ve got scouts out all around,” added Sid as he and his chums saw a number of shadowy figures patroling the stretch around the pavilion. “They’re not going to be caught unawares.”
“I don’t see how we’re going to break ’em up,” remarked Phil.
“You wait and you’ll see,” exclaimed Langridge, who was moving about among the freshmen. “Say, Ed, you’d better go now and light the fuse.”
“Is it an explosion?” asked Sid eagerly.
“Better be careful,” cautioned Phil.
Tom’s heart was thumping. He began to see the use to which the wire might be put, and he was afraid lest he had taken part in some dangerous prank. If Langridge had planned to explode a mine under the pavilion, some one might be injured.
“There’ll be no explosion, only an explosion of wrath pretty soon,” replied Langridge. “Go ahead, Kerr. Let ’em sing one song and they’ll think we’ve called it off. Then let it go.”
Kerr hurried off, keeping in the shadows. No sooner had he started than a movement was noticeable among the sophomores, groups of whom could easily be seen now, as the moon was well up.
Then, on the stillness of the night, there broke a song. It was an old melody, sacred to Randall, and, in spite of being rendered by hilarious students, it was well done.
“That’s not half bad,” commented Phil. “They’ve got some good members for the glee club there.”
“It’s punk!” sneered Langridge. “Wait until we have a song fest. We’ll make them feel sick!”
The melody continued, and coming as it did from the distance, while all about was the wondrous beauty of the moon, the effect produced on Tom Parsons was one of distinct pleasure. It was like being at some play.
“What a pity,” he thought, “to spoil it all! What brutes we college fellows are—sometimes. I like to listen to that.”
The song was softer now, and then it broke forth into a full chorus, well rendered.
“It’s a shame to break it up,” reasoned Tom. Then a class feeling overcame him. After all, the sophomores were their traditional enemies, and college tradition demanded that they disperse the gathering.
“Kerr ought to be there now,” whispered Langridge. “The fuse will burn for two minutes.”
“Fuse—fuse,” repeated Phil. “It must be an explosion. You want to be careful, Langridge.”
“Oh, I know what I’m doing,” was the answer. “But mind now, no squealing, whatever happens.”
“You needn’t say that,” was Phil’s quick retort. “We’re Randall College freshmen,” as if that was all that was necessary.
Kerr glided in from somewhere.
“Well?” asked Langridge.
“It’s all right.”
The sophomores had started another song. They were about through the second verse when there came a series of sudden yells from the pavilion. There were cries of pain, and Langridge, in the midst of the freshmen, called out:
“That’s it! That’s the stuff! Rah! rah! sophs! This time we break you up. Cheer, boys, cheer!”
The freshmen set up an exultant cry as it became evident that, in some way, the gleeful singing of the second-year lads had been stopped. There was an excited movement in the pavilion, yet the waiting freshmen could not see that anything had taken place.
Then came a cry—two exclamations—louder and more anguished than any that had preceded. There was a yell—a protesting yell—and then some one in the pavilion shouted:
“Cut it, fellows! The hand railing is charged with electricity!”
“Three cheers for the freshmen!” called Langridge, and the response came spontaneously, for his mates knew that they had triumphed over the sophomores.
Suddenly above the confused cheering and shouting there came another cry.
“Help me, fellows! Oh, help—help!” screamed some one inside the pavilion.
There was a confused movement among the singers. Something seemed to have happened—something serious. The freshmen stopped their cheering and crowded up. A big sophomore broke through the throng and dashed toward the college.
“What’s the matter?” called Tom, and he had an uneasy feeling as he asked the question.
“Matter? It’s you confounded freshmen, that’s what’s the matter! Gladdus and Battersby have been knocked unconscious.”
“Unconscious?”
“Yes, by a powerful current of electricity. Get out of my way, fresh, or I’ll knock you down! I’m going for a doctor. Some of you had better notify the proctor,” he added to a few of his classmates who followed him on the run. “This is serious business.”
“Come on, fellows,” advised Langridge. “It’s all right. We broke up the pavilion meeting all right.”
“But maybe some one is seriously hurt,” said Sid.
“Nonsense, it was only a current from the incandescent light lamps. It couldn’t hurt them. Come on, take a sneak away from here. We’ve had our fun. And mind, everybody keep his mouth shut,” and Langridge disappeared in the shadows of the trees, while ahead of him panted several sophomores on their way to summon a physician.
Tom and Sid hurried along in the midst of the freshmen, Phil Clinton trailing after them. The three found themselves in a little group, comparatively alone.
“Maybe we’d better do something,” proposed Tom.
“No, best not to interfere,” advised Sid. “Let them manage it.”
“But if Gladdus and Battersby are hurt——”
“Come on,” urged Phil. “We’re likely to be caught any minute. Proc. Zane will be out after all that racket. Let’s get to our rooms and lay low.”
When Tom and Sid were in their apartment the scrub pitcher turned to his chum and asked:
“Did you know what was in the wind to-night, Sid?”
“No. I left it all to Langridge and Kerr. But I guess it’s all right. Why?”
“Oh, nothing much. But if some one is hurt——”
“Nonsense, don’t worry. Why, that’s nothing to what other classes have done. I remember hearing a story of how——”
But Sid’s yarn was interrupted by a tap at the door, and Ford Fenton slid in. There was rather a frightened look on his face.
“What’s up, Fenton?” asked Sid.
“I don’t know, but something is. They’ve carried Gladdus and Battersby into the infirmary, and there’s a lot of scurrying about. They’ve sent for a doctor from town, and Moses and Proc. Zane have gone down to the pavilion.”
“What for?” asked Tom.
“Blessed if I know. Say, but we broke up their singing all right, didn’t we? It was great. My uncle says——”
“Shut up!” cried Tom, and there was such unusual irritability in his tone that the other two looked at him in surprise. He saw it and went on: “I—I didn’t exactly mean that, Fenton, old chap, but I’m—I’m all upset.”
“For cats’ sake, what about?” demanded Sid. “You don’t mean to say you’re worried because our class knocked out a couple of greasy old sophs?”
“Well, I—er——”
There came another interruption, and a lad entered.
“Here’s the Snail,” exclaimed Sid as Sam Looper crawled in and closed the door softly behind him. “He can find out what’s up. How about it, Snail—any news?”
Sam blinked his eyes as if the light hurt him.
“I’ve been around—around,” he said slowly, waving his hand to take in the whole compass of the college and grounds. “I saw ’em carry the two sophs away. They’re badly burned and shocked. Langridge is a fool!” They had seldom seen the Snail so excited. “He went and strung a wire from the electric light circuit to the iron hand rail around the pavilion. Only he made a mistake in the connections and got the wires crossed with the powerful arc circuit. The incandescent is only a hundred and ten volts, while the arc is twenty-four hundred. Some difference. Only that they got a small part of it, they’d be dead instead of merely badly shocked.”
Tom Parsons half uttered an exclamation.
“What’s the matter?” asked Sid quickly.
“Oh, nothing. Go on, Snail.”
“That’s about all,” came from Sam. “Pitchfork—he’s a sort of doctor, you know—he’s working over ’em now. I guess they’ll be all right.”
Tom started to leave the room.
“Where you going?” inquired Sid.
“Out. I—I must see what’s happened!”
“You stay here!” ordered Sid, half fiercely. “You’ll be nabbed in a minute. Proc. Zane has his scouts out, waiting to corral everybody. Here, Snail, you go. You know how to keep out of sight.”
“Sure,” agreed Sam, who liked nothing better than to prowl around in the dark. “Wait here and I’ll sneak back.”
“Be careful,” cautioned Ford.
The Snail slowly winked his half-shut eyes, but did not speak. Then he closed the door softly and they heard him tiptoeing down the corridor.
“The Snail will find out,” almost whispered Sid. Somehow they all appeared to be under a strain. Tom was pacing back and forth in the room. Ford stood with his back to the mantel, his hands clasped behind him. Sid tried to look at a book, but he took no sense of the words. Finally, with an exclamation, he threw it on the sofa. Ford quietly left the room and a little later Phil Clinton came in. Sid and Tom saw that he had heard all.
Tom ceased his nervous walk and went over to the sofa. He sat down on it, the ancient piece of furniture creaking with his weight. But he was not there half a minute before he arose and began pacing up and down again. Then he tried an easy chair, whence there floated up a little cloud of dust from the old cushions. There was silence in the apartment, broken only by the ticking of a fussy little alarm clock. It seemed to double up on the number of seconds allotted to a minute. The three could hear each other’s breathing. They were under some strain, though, for the life of them, neither Sid nor Phil could tell what it was.
“Why doesn’t some one say something?” asked Phil at length, and it was as if some one had broken the silence in a church.
Sid picked up the book he had cast aside. Then he threw it down again, for there sounded the noise of a person coming along the corridor. The Snail came in.
“Well?” gasped Tom, and it was as if he had shouted it, though he spoke in a low, tense voice.
“They’re in a bad way,” said the Snail slowly, “but there’s a chance to pull them through. There’s going to be an investigation, I heard. Langridge is likely to——”
There came a knock on the door. The lads started guiltily. Phil, being nearest the portal, opened it, though if it was one of the proctor’s “scouts,” as was likely, he would be “up” for breaking one of the college rules about being in another room after the prescribed hours. It was a “scout,” Mr. Snell, a sort of upper janitor.
“Mr. Parsons,” said the scout deferentially—and he took no notice of the presence of the Snail or Phil, for which they were duly grateful—“Mr. Parsons, the proctor would like to see you in his office.”
“Now?” asked Tom, and his heart began to beat double strokes.
“Now, yes, sir.”
Without a look at his chums Tom went out and to the office. He was afraid lest he might betray the secret he feared would be disclosed at any moment—the secret of the coil of wire.
“Mr. Parsons,” began Proctor Zane slowly when the door had closed behind Tom, “there has been a serious accident to-night.”
Tom bowed. He could not trust his voice.
“Two students were badly hurt and the results may be lasting. They are only just now out of danger.”
Once more Tom bowed. He could not speak. The beating of his heart was choking him.
“As a rule,” went on the proctor judicially, “I take no notice of the—er—the affairs between the different classes or student bodies. But this time I am obliged to. Dr. Churchill and myself have made an examination of the pavilion where this outrage occurred. We discovered the wires running from the electric light circuit to the hand rail. We discovered where a spring connection had been made, so that, by the burning away of a fuse, the parts of the spring closed, the wires came in contact and the current filled the hand rail. We also discovered something else.”
He paused, and Tom, for the first time, looked the proctor full in the face. Mr. Zane held out a small object.
“This knife was found near where the wires were fastened to the railing,” he said. “It has your name on it. Is it yours?”
“Yes, sir,” replied Tom.
“You took part in this affair?”
“I am a freshman.”
“That is answer enough. Did you attach the wires?”
“No, and I had nothing to do with that part of it.”
“Your knife would seem to indicate that you had.”
No answer from Tom.
“Did you use your knife to attach the wires?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you know who did?”
“I think I do.”
“Will you tell?”
Tom could almost hear his heart beating. There was a singing in his ears. Then he answered:
“No. I cannot tell, Mr. Zane. I—I——”
“That will do,” said the proctor gravely. “I did not expect you would tell.”
Tom turned and made his way from the room. There was a mist before his eyes. There came back to him the promise he had made to Langridge. On his honor as a freshman he had agreed not to give information. When he gave the promise he had not known how serious it would be. But, nevertheless, it was a promise.
Tom stumbled into his room. The Snail and Phil were gone. Sid sat with the light turned low. He jumped up as his chum came in.
“Tom,” he cried, “what’s the matter?”
“Nothing,” was the answer in a dull, spiritless tone. Tom threw himself into a chair. The fussy little clock ticked away. Half an hour passed and not a word was spoken.
“You’d better go to bed, old man,” said Sid gently. “It’ll be all right to-morrow.”
Without a word Tom began to undress. The light was turned out. Sid was dozing off when he heard his chum tossing restlessly on his bed.
“Tom,” he called through the darkness, “can I help you?”
“No,” came the answer, and then Tom lay quiet. But he did not sleep.
There was a more complete investigation the next day. The report was also circulated that the two sophomores were not so badly injured as had at first been feared. But there was something in the air which showed that stringent measures were likely to be taken by the faculty.
Dr. Churchill was ten minutes late in opening chapel that morning, and there was much stately moving to and fro on the part of the instructors. On the face of Professor Emerson Tines there was a look of satisfaction, as if he was glad that some one had gotten into trouble.
“Look at Pitchfork!” said Sid to Tom, but Tom’s face had not lost its anxious look.
“For Heaven’s sake, cheer up!” whispered Phil Clinton. “They’ll think you did the whole business if they see your face, Tom.”
Dr. Churchill made an unusual prayer that morning. Though he did not directly refer to the happening of the previous night, it was in his petition, and many a freshman, impressed by the solemn words, then and there resolved to abjure in the future unseemly pranks and to become a “grind.”
“The freshman class will remain after chapel this morning,” announced the venerable head of Randall, and as the other classes filed out there were commiserating looks cast at the unlucky first-years by the juniors and seniors and vindictive glances bestowed by the sophomores.
The examination was a long and searching one. Tom was questioned at length, but all he would admit was that he took part in the affair, though he stated that he had had nothing to do with fixing the wires. Nor did he tell of having brought the coil to Langridge. His knife was damaging evidence against him, and he was content to let it stand as such. Kerr manfully admitted lighting the fuse which sprung the wires together and sent the current sizzling into the hand rail, but he would go no further nor tell who had strung the conductors.
The faculty dismissed the class and the instructors went into executive session.
“Maybe we’ll all be in for it,” predicted Phil as the lads strolled off to their classrooms. “They may suspend us all for a week.”
“I don’t believe they’d do that,” was Sid’s opinion. “They may forbid any of us taking part in athletics, though.”
“Yes, they might do that,” added Fenton. “My uncle says——”
The boys all stopped and looked at him. No one spoke a word. Fenton squirmed under their unflinching gaze.
“Well—well,” he began hesitatingly, “he ought to know, for he was a coach here——”
“Yes, and you’re a regular trolley car, with an automatic gong that rings up the same thing every time,” exclaimed Langridge. “They wouldn’t dare keep us out of athletics for such a little joke as that. Why, the whole student body would be up in arms. The ball team would go to pieces, and we’d lose the championship. They wouldn’t dare.”
“Glad you think so,” remarked Holly Cross calmly. “But I can see us giving a good imitation of a lot of fellows in trouble. Maybe we—that is, whoever strung those wires, for I don’t know who it was—maybe we went a little too far. If I’d have known what was up, I’d have made a kick.”
“Oh, is that so?” sneered Langridge. But he did not admit his part in the prank and he let Tom suffer for him, for that afternoon it was announced that Tom was to be suspended for two weeks and Kerr for three. Every other member of the freshman class was barred from leaving the college grounds for a week.
There arose a mighty protest over this, for there was a game scheduled with Fairview Institute at the end of the week, and if the class was kept within bounds it meant that many of the nine could not play and that all the freshmen would be barred from witnessing the second of the championship struggles, as the contest was to take place at Fairview.
Then the faculty reconsidered the matter, being “almost human,” as Phil said, and, with the possible exception of Professor Tines, having once been young and fond of sport themselves. They made a new ruling: That the class was to keep within bounds until the day of the game, when all would be allowed to attend save Tom and Kerr. In their case no exception would be made.
There was more objecting, but the ruling stood. It meant that Tom could not pitch on the scrub and that Kerr could not catch on the ’varsity, whereat there was much anguish of soul, for the Fairview team was a hard proposition, and it would take the best that was in the Randall lads to beat them. But there was no help for it.
Nor did Tom reproach Langridge for having gotten him into the trouble. Tom had hoped that his rival would confess and shoulder the blame, in which case, merely having brought the wire on a supposition that it was to be used for a comparatively harmless prank, Tom’s case would not have been nearly so bad. But Langridge said nothing. Sid heard somehow of the ’varsity pitcher’s part in the trick. Then Tom’s chum expressed the belief that Langridge had deliberately acted so as to get Tom into trouble because the rich lad had feared the newcomer might supplant him as pitcher.
But Tom would not hear of this. He took his suspension grimly, silently, and though barred from class, he kept up his studies; nor did he neglect his practice of throwing curves, Kerr gladly agreeing to catch for him, for the two were outcasts from the diamond, Tom not even being allowed to play on the scrub.
“But two weeks and three weeks can’t last forever,” declared Kerr, “though I sure would like to see the Fairview game.”
Saturday came and with it a feeling of apprehension on the part of the Randall students, for various reports had come to them of the prowess of their rivals. The team made ready to depart for Fairview Institute. They were to go by rail to the college that was fifteen miles away. Tom and Kerr, about the only ones in the athletic set who remained at Randall, looked wistfully at their departing comrades.
And then, so suddenly that it seemed like a miracle, their sorrow was turned to joy, for the proctor sought them out on the campus, where the team was being cheered previous to departure, and announced in the case of the two suspended students that they might go to the game, but take no part, even in an emergency. They gladly accepted the terms. Dr. Churchill’s heart had softened at the last moment.
“Girls, girls, girls!” exclaimed Tom as he walked out on the field with Sid and Phil and saw the grandstand at Fairview massed with gay femininity. “And all pretty too!”
“Of course,” agreed Sid. “What did I tell you? But what interests me more is the other team. Jove! but they are quick,” for the Fairview students were batting and catching in a manner to provoke admiration.
There were shrill cries of encouragement from the girls and more hoarse shouts from the male students, for at Fairview the sexes were about evenly divided, both boys and girls taking equal interest in sports.
Coach Lighton shook his head dubiously as he saw the Randall boys stream out on the diamond for practice.
“I hope Cross will appreciate the seriousness of the matter,” he said. “He can’t begin to touch Kerr at catching, yet he’s the best one we can put in.”
“Yes,” agreed Kindlings. “But maybe we’ll make out. I hope so.”
Kerr was as nervous as a girl at not being able to play. He paced up and down the coaching lines until Kindlings, fearing he would disconcert the team, sent him to the grandstand, where Tom had already gone.
Well, that game with Fairview is ancient history now. Sufficient to say that after a good beginning, when they gathered three runs the first inning and held their opponents down to a goose egg, principally through the pitching of Langridge, the Randall lads went to pieces and the Fairviews ran away with them. Langridge was finally fairly batted out of the box and the final score was 16 to 4 in favor of the co-educational institution.
It was a sorely disappointed nine that filed off the diamond, nor could the generous cheers of the victors apply any balm to the wounds.
“Such pitching!” grumbled Phil as he was in the dressing-room. “That lost us the game as much as anything else. Langridge didn’t seem to be in form.”
The pitcher overheard him.
“I say, Clinton,” he called out sneeringly, “you mind your own affairs. I train as good as you, and I didn’t miss a fly that came right into my hands,” for Phil had thus offended, letting in a run.
“I’ve seen you pitch better,” spoke Sid quietly, for he and several others were “sore” at Langridge, who plainly enough had not been in his usual good form.
“Well, maybe. I can’t be on edge all the while,” and the pitcher laughed nervously.
Tom, in the grandstand, was making his way down amid a bevy of pretty girls and wishing he had some one who would introduce him to them when he heard a voice call his name. He turned quickly and saw Madge Tyler in a bewilderingly pretty dress, her hair framing her face in a most bewitching manner, while her eyes were bright with the joy of youth and the fire thereof.
“Too bad, wasn’t it?” she asked sympathetically, holding out her hand to Tom. “I was so sorry for Mr. Langridge!”
“Why Langridge?” asked Tom quickly.
“Oh, well, because the pitcher seems to have to work so hard, and then to be defeated——”
“Yes, it was unpleasant—the defeat,” agreed Tom. “But are you going out?”
“Yes, I came over with friends to see the game, but I seem to have missed them in the crush.”
“Then let me be your escort back to Haddonfield?” asked Tom. “I’m rather by my lonesome, too.”
“Oh, thank you. I dare say——”
She paused and looked over the moving mass of students, boys and girls who were laughing happily or walking away dejectedly according to the colors they wore. Tom followed her gaze. He saw Langridge approaching and he knew that Miss Tyler had seen him also.
“There’s Mr. Langridge!” she exclaimed. “I wonder how he feels? He promised to meet me after the game.”
Tom took a sudden resolve. He did not stop to think that it might be a foolish one. He was actuated solely by what he argued to himself was a platonic interest in the pretty girl at his side. He had known her in childhood, he knew her people, and they were old friends of his folks. Of late Tom had heard certain rumors about Langridge, nothing serious as rumors about college students go, but enough to make Tom glad that, in the case of his sisters, Langridge could not get to know them. It was therefore with somewhat the same feeling that he might have warned his sisters that he spoke to Miss Tyler.
“You and Mr. Langridge are quite friendly,” he said in what he intended to be a light tone.
“Oh, yes,” came the frank answer. “I like him immensely. I like all college boys—when they’re nice,” she finished with a little laugh.
Tom’s face was grave, and she saw it. With a girl’s intuition she felt that there was something in the air, and, girl-like, she wanted to know what it was.
“Shouldn’t I like him?” she demanded with an arch look.
“Well—er—that is—no, Miss Madge!” burst out Tom, speaking more loudly than he had intended to. “You won’t mind me speaking about it, for I’ve known you so many years.”
“Oh, I’m not so ancient as all that!” exclaimed the girl rather pertly.
“No,” admitted Tom, and he felt that he was getting into deep water and beyond his depth. But he would not retreat and floundered on: “No, but I—I know your folks wouldn’t like you to go with Langridge—that is, too much, you know. He does not bear a very good——”
There was a hand on Tom’s shoulder, and he felt himself wheeled suddenly around, to be confronted by Langridge. The pitcher had brushed his uniform and looked particularly handsome in a well-fitting suit, while there was a healthy glow to his face.
“Perhaps you’d better repeat over again, Parsons,” he said somewhat sternly, “what you were just saying to Miss Tyler about me. I didn’t catch it all!”
“I—er—I——” Tom was choking, and the girl bravely came to his relief.
“We were just talking about you,” she admitted with a nervous little laugh. “I was saying how disheartening it must be to pitch through a hard game and then lose it. And Tom—I mean Mr. Parsons, but I always call him Tom, for I’ve known him so long—he was just saying—er—he was just saying that you were rather—well, rather a flirt. I believe that was it, wasn’t it, Tom?” and she looked quickly at him, but there was meaning in her glance.
Langridge kept his hand on Tom’s shoulder and the two looked each other straight in the face unflinchingly. Miss Tyler lost some of her blushes and her cheeks began to pale. Then Tom spoke quietly.
“If you wish to know exactly what I said,” was his quiet but tense answer, “I will tell you—later,” and he swung on his heel and started down the grandstand steps.
For an instant Langridge stared after him. Then, with a little laugh, he turned to Miss Tyler.
“Poor Parsons is sore because he’s been suspended,” he said. “He can’t even pitch on the scrub. But how pretty you’re looking to-day, Miss Madge.”
“Miss Tyler, please,” she corrected him.
“Mayn’t I even call you Miss Madge after I’ve been defeated in the game?” he pleaded, and he looked at her boldly. “It would be—er—well, sort of soothing to me.”
“Would it?” and she laughed lightly.
“It surely would,” and he bent closer toward her.
“Well, then, you may—but only on occasions of defeat.”
“Then I’m going to lose every game,” he added promptly as he turned at her side and walked down the steps.
Tom Parsons, strolling alone over the now vacant diamond, saw them together, and there was a strange feeling in his heart.